


aurora

by tobeconvincedoflove



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Combeferre Knows Everything, Fever, Gen, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Non-Binary Jehan, Sickfic, Vomiting, enjolras is incapable of resting, enjolras is poisoned, yeah idk if there's any other tags i can use for this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-20
Updated: 2016-07-20
Packaged: 2018-07-25 17:33:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7541674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tobeconvincedoflove/pseuds/tobeconvincedoflove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras is poisoned. There isn't a cure.</p>
<p>(Or, the extended hospital stay I-just-want-to-hurt-Enjolras fit with bonus worried!triumverate and occasional appearances of Pokemon Go.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	aurora

**Author's Note:**

> I think there's exactly one other person in the world who wanted this pic, but I couldn't help it so here we go. :) I have something major in the works, though...

They’re in the apartment when it happens. It’s near the beginning of movie night, and they’re watching _Ice Princess_ (Bahorel’s pick) while they argue over pizza choices and wait for Combeferre’s shift to end at the hospital. Enjolras is in the kitchen with Courfeyrac--he thinks he swallowed a chip wrong, because his throat is feeling tight and he should really turn the heat down because it’s really too warm in their normally frigid apartment. 

“You okay there, E?” Courfeyrac asks, and this is when Enjolras knows something is wrong because his heart is starting to beat faster and faster and he’s dizzy and why is it so hard to breathe. He thinks he hears some noise from the other room, but it’s like he’s standing on the other side of a rushing river. 

“I don’t… don’t feel…” Enjolras manages, each breath harder to grasp than the last, before his knees give out. 

He doesn’t remember much else, but that’s how he knows it starts.

:: ::

“JOLY!” Courfeyrac screams the second his best friend collapses into his arms, and he barely has him lowered to the floor before Enjolras’s body starts convulsing, his breathing short and harsh.

As soon as Joly sees what’s happening, he’s next to Enjolras, turning him on his side and yelling for someone to call an ambulance. He’s counting how long the seizure lasts, and he’s rattling off information to Bahorel, who’s on the phone with whoever is sending the ambulance. As soon as it’s over, Joly takes Enjolras’s pulse, frowning before going to check his breathing. 

“What’s happening?” Courfeyrac asks, dropping to his knees to where Enjolras still isn’t conscious, but his face is slowly turning from red to purple. 

“I don’t know. He’s not breathing and his heart rate is way too fast.” Joly’s voice is panicked, but luckily it’s at that moment when they hear the sirens that mean the ambulance is downstairs. 

“I’m going to let them in,” Bahorel says, his quick pace easily betraying his panic. 

“E, it’s going to be okay. Just keep breathing.” Courfeyrac has no idea if Enjolras can hear him, but he takes his hand in his own anyways. 

Time seems to move too slowly, even though it’s a matter of seconds before the paramedics arrive, Joly relaying what he knows to them while everyone else backs away. They’re quick about helping him breathe as quickly as possible, and just as efficient in getting him out of there, Joly running alongside them to be with Enjolras in the ambulance. He knows Enjolras’s medical history better than anyone but Combeferre, and while Courfeyrac’s heart aches that he can’t be there for his best friend, he knows the paramedics need information, not comfort.

The rest of them, they’re all left with the unbearable, terrifying silence. Courfeyrac’s hands are shaking, and he feels like he’s going to vomit. 

“We were just talking about work… he was fine one moment and then he was down…” That’s when the first tear slips out. “Oh my god I’ve got to call ‘Ferre.” 

“You can do it on the way. My van should fit everyone.” Marius’s voice is soft as he gently maneuvers his friend towards the door. “He’s going to be okay.”

“You don’t know that. You don’t know that--he just had a fucking seizure, Marius, and he wasn’t breathing. Oh my god he wasn’t breathing.” Courfeyrac’s voice cracks, as the full weight of what had happened hits him _hard_. “He’s my best friend. I can’t lose him.” 

“Come on.” Marius’s arm around Courfeyrac is enough to steer him towards the door as someone gently presses their phone into his hand. 

“Call Combeferre. He’ll be getting ready to leave.” That’s when Enjolras knows it’s Cosette; her voice is already wracked with tears. “All you have to do is press dial.” 

Courfeyrac feels like he’s watching himself do it from a distance, but he presses the button as they pack silently into the elevator. The ringing on the other end is the only sound until there’s a crackling and Combeferre is saying--

“Courf? What’s up? I’m changing and then I’m on my--”

“No, you have to stay,” Courfeyrac says, and there’s a sharp exhale on the other end. 

“What happened?” It’s professional, clinical, and that’s the only thing that’s keeping Courfeyrac from having a complete breakdown right now.

“It’s Enjolras. He had a seizure, and I think Joly said something about a fever and an elevated heart rate. He wasn’t breathing, ‘Ferre.” Once Courfeyrac gets it out, his hand goes over his mouth to try to muffle the subsequent sob that followed. He thought he could handle talking to Combeferre, but he can’t. The three of them, they’re best friends--they even have the friendship bracelets he made when they were six to prove it. And Enjolras is… he has no idea if Enjolras is alive, and that’s the most terrifying possibility Courfeyrac has faced in his life. It’s worse than the time he almost had to face Combeferre moving away when they were eight, or when they were seventeen and Enjolras passed out during a cross country meet, or when he was twenty and his mother lost her job.

“Okay. Okay, Courf. Who is with him in the ambulance?” Combeferre’s voice is calm. He’s probably cataloguing and coming up with possible diagnoses already. He probably isn’t hearing his heartbeat in his skull right now.

“Joly. He was helping with the medical history and what happened,” Courfeyrac answers. “We’re on our way right now.” There’s a pause. “What’s going on, ‘Ferre? Is he going to be okay?” 

“I don’t know. There’s a few things that this could be… what did the paramedics do?” Honestly, Courfeyrac can’t remember most of it. Only that they started on pumping oxygen as soon as they could.

“They started using that squeeze thing to help him breathe… I don’t remember the rest. I’m sorry, ‘Ferre. It was all really fast and--” Yup. Courfeyrac is panicking. At least he’s in the car now, so he doesn’t have to try to walk and focus on not flipping shit. 

“Hey. It’s okay. Just get here. I found Joly, and we’ll fill you guys in when you get here,” Combeferre says, before hanging up. 

Courfeyrac hasn’t prayed in a long time, but as soon as he gets inside the hospital his head drops to his knees and he begs whatever is up there not to take his best friend. He can’t do this without Enjolras; he knows he’s being selfish but he needs Enjolras’s smile after he takes his first drink of coffee in the morning, he needs Enjolras’s hugs after a rough day of work. He just needs Enjolras to be there, to keep breathing.

Why does it feel like asking that is asking for a miracle?

:: ::

“Poisoned?” Courfeyrac’s eyes are red and puffy, Combeferre’s shirt is soaked, and, apparently, Enjolras was poisoned. “With what?”

“We’re running some bloodwork and urine labs right now. Until then, we’re trying to get his temperature down and control the seizures.” The doctor’s voice is thin, and she can’t look at Combeferre. She’s his supervisor, and she’s heard so much about the kid she’s been treating for the past few hours. 

“What about his breathing?” This time, it’s Joly. The last time he saw Enjolras, he still wasn’t breathing on his own. “Has he regained consciousness?” 

“We intubated him, so he’s sedated.” Her tone is careful, and Combeferre just runs his hand through his hair. “Hopefully within a few hours he’ll start breathing better on his own and we can extubate him.” 

“Can we see him?” Courfeyrac needs to see Enjolras. It’s the only thing that’s going to convince him that Enjolras is still alive, that he’s okay. 

“Only his emergency contacts,” the doctor says, her voice firm. “Once the test results come in, we’ll know a lot more, and we can talk about options.” 

“How soon will we be able to see him?” Combeferre asks. That makes the doctor’s heart twist, because normally Combeferre would be asking five hundred questions and already have three different, equally likely possibilities and courses of treatment. It speaks volumes that his worry has reduced him to this. 

“I can take you two back right now, but you can’t stay long. They’ll be running more tests soon,” she explains, and Combeferre just nods, setting his jaw. 

“Do you need me to help tell them?” he asks Joly, the only other person involved in the conversation with the doctor, but the other intern just shakes his head and places a comforting hand on his friend’s shoulder, before walking back to the group.

Silently, Courfeyrac reaches for Combeferre’s hand, and with a gentle squeeze they follow the doctor through the maze of hallways Combeferre knows so well. There’s so much worry pressing against his chest cavity that all Combeferre can do is grip Courfeyrac’s hand as tightly as he can and hope it’s enough to ground him when he sees Enjolras. Because he knows it’s going to be bad. Enjolras is the strongest person he knows, truly, and when there’s this much that’s out of his control and happening his body is going to be weak. And it’s going to take his toll. 

Sure enough, Courfeyrac’s grip tightens to iron levels the second he sees Enjolras. His blond curls are slicked back to his forehead with sweat, there are machines beeping and whirring all around him, and the intubation is harder to see than he thought. Together, they rush towards the bed, taking seats in the chairs and each grabbing one of Enjolras’s hands. 

After a few minutes pass, Courfeyrac’s eyes meet his best friend’s.

“Why would someone do this?” he asks Combeferre, who has spent the moments in silence staring at the machines, as if he can take the numbers and create a solution just by sheer will. But his brain can’t get past the fact that his best friends is lying there, and he has no way to help him. There’s absolutely nothing he can do to do to make this better right now, and that hurts him in a way he couldn’t comprehend until it happened.

“The website, especially the videos, have been getting popular. People have made threats…” Combeferre reminds Courfeyrac, and instantly he takes a sharp inhale. That can’t be it...

“He gave that speech at the protest last month,” Courfeyrac says, his heartbeat speeding up. “He’s supposed to give another one this week… but that’s politics. This is poison.” 

“Someone did this. And they had to have had a reason,” Combeferre says, his voice cracking harshly. “Speaking of the videos...”

“Someone has to say something,” Courfeyrac all but sighs. “I don’t know if I can. Not right now, when he’s like this.” 

“All we’ve done is made an honest news source. He doesn’t deserve this, not for just doing that.” Combeferre’s eyes are fractured glass as he moves his gaze from the friend sitting across from him to the one who needs a machine to breathe. 

“Give it a few hours and they’ll have an antidote and the ventilator will be out and he’ll be okay,” Courfeyrac tries to reassure his friend, but Combeferre shakes his head. He has racked his brain for every possible common poison that could match his symptoms, and there’s nothing. That’s what scares him.

“I don’t think… I don’t think it’s going to have an antidote, Courf.” Courfeyrac feels his heart skip a beat.

“Do you think he’s going to die?” 

“I think it’s going to be a long time before he’s well. And it’s going to be rough for him, especially if they can’t control the seizures and spasms.” Combeferre has to choose his words carefully. “They have ice packs and cooling blankets and everything else that could possibly help and his fever is still at 104.” 

“Then what do we do?” Courfeyrac is rubbing circles onto Enjolras’s hand, willing him a reason to stay through the night. 

“I don’t know, Courf.” That’s when Courfeyrac knows that this isn’t going to go away quickly. Their perfect trio has been fractured by something completely out of their control, and Courfeyrac wishes he hadn’t taken it for granted. He wishes he could go back to this morning, when the only thing he had to worry about was dragging Combeferre out of bed and whether or not Enjolras had matching socks on. Instead, as soon as they’re back in a quiet hallway, Courfeyrac takes out a video camera.

:: ::

Enjolras’s head feels like scrambled eggs when he finally manages to crawl his way back to consciousness. His entire body aches, and he’s not sure if the swirling in his head and his stomach is nausea or just tiredness. The lights in the room aren’t helping with that, but it’s so much easier to breathe than when he--

It all comes back in a rush, the same exact moment the bright lights sharpen to two faces. Combeferre and Courfeyrac. He was at the apartment, but then it was hot and he was dizzy and now he’s here. Where is that?

“Hey, E.” Courfeyrac’s voice is soft, and Enjolras realizes the pressure on his hand is Courfeyrac’s soft hand encompassing his own. “How are you doing?” 

“Okay,” is what Enjolras tries to say, but all that comes out is a harsh garble of sounds. _Shit_ , his throat hurts.

“Yeah. That’s going to be uncomfortable for a while, I’m afraid,” Combeferre says, a signature frown on his face as he watches Enjolras turn his head a little bit, obviously confused. Enjolras can’t really think straight, but he knows that frown means that something is pretty wrong. The problem is he has no idea what it is, but he thinks it’s his fault.

“What happened?” Enjolras gets out, and apparently he says the wrong words because Courfeyrac immediately bursts out into tears, the hand not gripping Enjolras’s own going to his face to try and hide it. That’s when Enjolras feels his heart sink into his chest, because he must have really fucked up. “Hey, Courf, it’s okay. I dunno what I did, but you’re okay and ‘Ferre’s okay and I’m okay.” 

“No, you’re not.” Now, Enjolras is working against his aching muscles, trying to pull himself up enough to give Courfeyrac a hug, because Courfeyrac is obviously falling apart over something and even though he doesn’t know what’s going on he knows that he wants this pain to end for his friend. But as soon as he figures out what Enjolras is trying to do, Combeferre’s arm stops him. Silently, he moves Enjolras’s bed so that he’s still flat against the mattress, but upright. Then, Courfeyrac wraps his arms around Enjolras, crying into the hollow space between his collar bones, and he clings to him like he’s afraid Enjolras is going to slip through his fingers if he doesn’t hold on as tightly as he can. When he’s cried out, it’s like there’s a gear change in Courfeyrac’s head because he immediately lays Enjolras back against the mattress like he’s afraid to break him. 

“What’s going on?” Enjolras asks, swallowing around the sharpness in his throat. “Why am I in the hospital?”

“You were poisoned, E. You weren’t breathing and you had a seizure--”

“-- _seizures_ \--”

“And there isn’t a cure. You’re not dying, but it’s going to be a while before it’s out of your system.” Combeferre’s voice is a hollow echo of his normal doctor voice. “It’s going to hurt and you have to _rest_ , E, or it’s going to be bad.” 

“Poisoned?” Enjolras gets out. That can’t be right. He’s just sick or had too much caffeine or something. 

“Yes. Someone did this,” Courfeyrac answers, wiping at his eyes. 

“If there’s nothing they can do, can I go home?” Enjolras asks, because there are few things that make him more uncomfortable than the hospital. He just wants to go home, even as he’s trying to ignore the pain rolling over him like a wave onto the shore. 

“No, E.” Combeferre’s voice betrays his hurt, because he had tried to campaign to take Enjolras home and be his main caretaker (he knows how anxious Enjolras is in hospitals), but his supervisor said it wasn’t possible due to the volatile effects the poison was having on Enjolras’s vitals. “You’ve had too many seizures, and your temperature keeps spiking. They need to keep a close eye on the poison, something I couldn’t do at home.” 

“Am I… am I going to have more of them?” Enjolras’s fear sneaks into his voice. He thinks he’s lucky his mind isn’t put together enough to fully process everything that’s apparently happened, because the words seizure and intubation and poison are terrifying alone, much less put together. 

“I’m not going to lie to you, Enjolras. Yes,” Combeferre answers. Enjolras inhales sharply, and he knows they can all hear his heartbeat pick up slightly as he tries to realize what’s happened, what’s going to happen. “Hey, it’s okay.” 

“If I asked you if I could still die… would you lie to me then?” Instantly, Courfeyrac stops rubbing circles on Enjolras’s hand, instead gripping it tightly. The change forces Enjolras to look to him.

“No, we wouldn’t. The answer is yes,” he says, his eyes trying to will Enjolras to see just how much he doesn’t want it to happen.

“But you’re already doing much better. Just take it easy and get through it. You can start having visitors soon, and the rest of the Amis really want to see you.” Combeferre manages a small smile at Enjolras, who’s face suddenly creases. 

“How long has it been? How long do you think it’s going to take to get it out of my system?”

“It’s been two days, but you were intubated for most of that time, so you were sedated. As for the poison… it could be anywhere between a few days and a few weeks.” Enjolras bolts upright, and Combeferre just sighs.

“A few weeks? I have work and the website and--” He’s cut off by Courfeyrac, who manhandles Enjolras back to lying down. It’s much easier than it should have been, and as soon as his back touches the mattress his bones seem to melt into it. That doesn’t stop him from fighting it, though. 

“You need to relax. I wasn’t lying when I said this was a fragile thing, and getting yourself worked up like this isn’t going to help anything.” The words are so firm that Enjolras, for once in his life, listens. There’s a few seconds of silence, as Combeferre slowly becomes satisfied with Enjolras’s reaction, and he’s just about to open his mouth again when Enjolras’s body goes taut.

The pain, the indescribable, smashing pain, is unbearable. It takes all Enjolras has to just bite back a scream, his body instinctively curling up, as if making himself small will end it. There’s no such luck, as the movement causes more of his muscles to ache and Enjolras wants to cry. He does cry; they’re fat, silent, fast tears that neither Combeferre’s comforting encompassing of his hands or Courfeyrac’s hands on his back can stop. It’s like the pain has built a wall to separate him from the rest of the world.

“It’s okay. Try to sleep through it,” Courfeyrac urges, before his hand reaches up near Enjolras’s face. Gently, timidly, he starts running his fingers through Enjolras’s sweaty curls, and the repeated motion is enough to soothe Enjolras’s fractured mind enough to send him spiraling back into unconsciousness.

:: ::

“Holy shit.” When Bahorel waltzes into Enjolras’s room, a few days later, he stops suddenly in his tracks.

“What?” Enjolras’s voice is full of fear. 

“A Pidgey is right next to your bed, E. Don’t move... I’ve gotta catch him.” Immediately, the headache and (apparently low-grade) fever seem to dissolve as Enjolras laughs. After a few seconds, Bahorel lets out a yell loud enough to alarm Jehan as they enter the room. 

“Bahorel, what the fuck?” they ask, but when Bahorel shows them his phone, Jehan has the same reaction. “That could have been me,” they moan, sinking into a chair next to Enjolras. 

“Have you been arrested for trespassing yet?” Enjolras asks, trying not to let the newest wave of pain in his skull distract him during this rare visit. He didn’t realize how much time he spent with his friends until suddenly he was stuck in the room with two sets of strict people (his actual doctors _and_ Combeferre) limiting who he could and couldn’t see on a daily basis. 

“Not yet, surprisingly. But ‘Parnasse and I had as close shave at the graveyard last night,” they admit, and Bahorel lets out a noise.

“You could have taken me with you, asshat,” he says, before turning to Enjolras. Silence immediately falls. “I’ve been looking at the police records. They have no leads, and it doesn’t look like they’re trying,” he says, rubbing a hand through his beard. “Bastards. Whoever did this could have killed you.” 

“I’m okay,” Enjolras reassures them, pulling himself into a sitting position and managing to only wince a little bit. 

“Like hell you hare. Courfeyrac said you had a rough night,” Jehan says, their voice full of worry. “He wasn’t going to let anyone come today, he was so worked up about it.” 

“I swear I’m fine,” Enjolras tries to reassure his friend, but now his lingering worry about Courfeyrac is back in full-force. This has been terrible for him--Enjolras can see the dark circles around his eyes, can see how thin his smiles are and how tired and stressed and anxious and nervous he is. He hates that he’s causing it, and that every time he tries to comfort Courfeyrac he seems to make it worse.

“You had another seizure. You’re not fine,” Bahorel argues, before leaning forward in his chair. “I can see what you’re thinking about. He’s doing okay, E, I promise.”

“No, he’s not. I see him every day, and he’s usually one step away from a breakdown. And I hate that...I hate that I’m making it worse and that I can’t do anything but wait and I hate that I’m useless to the website, and I hate that Combeferre is taking more and more night shifts just so he can make sure I’m not dead, and I hate that I’m worrying everyone and--”

“Hey, you’ve got to take a breath. Slow down,” Jehan interrupts, their hand going to Enjolras’s shoulder. “Relax.” 

“That’s all everyone tells me. Relax, rest, try to sleep through it. I just want it to be over,” Enjolras mumbles, shutting his eyes against the newest wave of pain washing from his skull to his toes. All he wants to do is curl into a ball, but he’s not going to waste his precious little time with his friends trying to sleep. 

“So do we, Enjolras. Trust me, we all want this to be over as quickly as possible. We need you back, chief,” Bahorel soothes, using another easy smile to mask his growing concern. 

“Can you… can you do me a favor?” Enjolras is breathing just a little bit harder right now. 

“Anything, E,” Jehan reassures him.

“As long as it’s not giving you electronics. I’m not willing to die by Combeferre quite yet,” Bahorel amends. In truth, it’s not that Bahorel’s terrified Enjolras is going to work himself into a seizure by checking facebook, it’s that he doesn’t want Enjolras looking at the latest videos. None of them do. Courfeyrac and Combeferre collectively made one after they saw Enjolras the first time… and it was hard to watch. There was a lot of crying and uncompleted sentences. Enjolras doesn’t need that added stress right now.

“Make sure they’re okay.” It’s the most lucid Enjolras has felt in days, but he needs to know that someone’s looking after his best friends, because he knows that he can’t right now.

“Of course. Now get some rest, and if you’re good maybe we’ll see you tomorrow.” Enjolras wants to argue with Bahorel, because he wants them to stay, but before he can say anything they’re gone and Enjolras is left to try and ride out the pain. 

He wishes he could throttle whoever did this to him.

:: ::

“Hey,” Enjolras croaks as soon as Combeferre enters the room. It’s almost three a.m. and Enjolras just wants to go to sleep. But, the doctors tried a new medicine to try and control the seizures and all it’s done is make Enjolras vomit his guts out for a few hours and spike his fever again. They’ve even got ice packs that they keep taking on and off and on and off.

“How are you feeling?” It’s the first thing Combeferre asks Enjolras every time he enters his room, right before he grabs Enjolras’s chart for an update. He always knows exactly what’s happening with his best friend, but it can’t help to read it for himself. 

“Like shit,” Enjolras says, before leaning over the side of his bed again. He’s gotten really good at getting it all in the bucket without holding it, which is good because all of his limbs are trembling like branches in the fall. Shockingly, Enjolras isn’t embarrassed until he can’t find the strength to pull his head back onto the pillow and Combeferre has to help him. 

“You should rest,” Combeferre says, his hands feeling along Enjolras’s face. 

“I can’t, ‘Ferre. Everytime I try my stomach finds something new to get rid of,” Enjolras slurs, trying not to melt into the blessed coldness of his friend’s hands. He’s cold but burning up at the same time, and as a result he’s kicked all of the blankets off and trembles in his old track shirt and Courfeyrac’s sweatpants. 

“Have they been giving you fluids?” Combeferre’s leaning forward in his chair, his hands neatly clasped together. Enjolras knows he’s holding them too hard, that he’s afraid to touch Enjolras… as if his touch will cause him to crumble into a pile of jittering bones. 

“I dunno what’s in the IV,” Enjolras gets out, curling into a ball against the newest bout of stomach cramps. “But they’ve given me some water.” 

“Okay. Are you still thirsty?” Combeferre’s voice shakes. He’s got to be tired.

“Don’t wanna. Don’t wanna throw up again,” Enjolras mumbles. “Sleep.”

“Then go to sleep, E. It’ll feel better when you wake up.” No, that’s not what Enjolras meant, and his hand blindly reaches out for his friends.

“No. You,” he says, feeling the heat rise to the front of his head. “You sleep.” 

“I’ll sleep when I go home, Enjolras,” Combeferre tries to reason, but Enjolras is now tugging on his hand. 

“You don’t go home. You should. ‘M okay. ‘M not dying.” The words are fragmented, but apparently it does the trick because after a bit of maneuvering Combeferre is in the bed beside Enjolras. HIs arms wrap around his trembling friend, and he places his chin on top of the sweaty curls. 

“Go to sleep.” Combeferre’s voice is firm, and Enjolras is too tired to fight him anymore. “No visitors today. You’ve got to sleep and rest and regain some strength. Maybe this weekend.”

“‘S only Tuesday, ‘Ferre.” 

After that, Enjolras spirals back into unconsciousness.

:: ::

It’s a good day, which means that Enjolras managed to shower on his own and now he’s curled up in a chair with a book instead of on the bed. Hell, he’d pull his ass out of the bed everyday if it would make Courfeyrac smile as much as it did when he saw him today.

“Hello, sunshine,” Courfeyrac greets, dropping into the chair next to Enjolras. “Keep it up like this and they’ll let you go home soon.” 

“That’s all I want,” Enjolras admits, carefully closing the book. “Now if Combeferre would actually go home…”

“He’s worried, E,” Courfeyrac chides, but they share a knowing look. “As it so happens, I just talked to his supervisor. She’s not giving him any night shifts for the next two weeks. So you can calm down.” 

“Good. He needs to…” Enjolras is at a loss for words. “I hate that he’s running himself into the ground over this.” 

“I know, E. But he’s worried. Earlier this week…” Now it’s Courfeyrac’s turn to delve back into his own mind. “Your fever was really bad.”

“But I’m doing better now. And he’s _still_ not letting anyone--” Enjolras knows that the two-day fever and vomit fest did a number on his friends, but it’s days later and they still aren’t letting him see anyone but Courfeyrac and Combeferre. He’s not sick of them, he’s not--they’re his best friends and he loves them more than anything--but it means they’re here a lot more and when he’s not doing well they worry and Enjolras hates not being able to do anything about it. 

“Surprise. Quarantine has ended.” It’s Feuilly, leaning against the doorframe. “I see you’re winding up for a speech.” 

“Don’t you dare rile him up,” Courfeyrac warns, but Enjolras just grins and accepts the crushing hug Feuilly offers. 

“Relax. He does a good enough job of that himself,” he shoots back, and Enjolras smiles at his lap. “Bahorel wanted me to tell you that the Pidgey he found in your room--I think he named it Chief in your honor, by the way--is doing great.” 

“Glad to hear it,” Enjolras says. Feuilly is sitting on the edge of the bed, and in the comfortable silence he reaches over and grabs the book Enjolras was reading.

“More Steinbeck?” Feuilly wrinkles his nose. “Don’t get me wrong, I love the guy, but if I were having as miserable of a time as you I’d be reading Harry Potter or something.” 

“He’s read the entire series twice this week already,” Courfeyrac explains, as Enjolras snatches the book back. 

“If I’d just had my laptop…” But it’s obvious from the looks on both Feuilly’s and Courfeyrac’s that Enjolras has no shot of winning this one. Feuilly even pauses putting his dreads up into a bun to further iterate his point.

“You might not have it, but I have mine with me _and_ your Netflix password. Want to watch some Parks and Rec?” It’s said with a mischievous grin, and as soon as Enjolras nods enthusiastically Feuilly laughs and queues it up.

“We gotta start with the time capsule one, though,” Enjolras says, and Feuilly chuckles again. 

The next few hours pass easily, and when both Courfeyrac and Feuilly leave so the doctor can do a check-up, they have some video clips and quotations to do a video and update the website. The amount of concern and outrage over Enjolras’s poisoning truly touches Courfeyrac’s heart, and he likes to think that if enough people who believe in a god are pleading with them to let Enjolras stay, he’ll have a chance.

:: :: 

“Easy, easy.” Enjolras is tossing and turning in a fitful rest, and he’s burning up again. However, he’s somewhere where he can hear Courfeyrac’s words, because he calms almost immediately, though that could be more due to the cool hand on his forehead than anything.

Courfeyrac wants to cry. It’s been over a month and they have no idea how much longer it’ll be and there’s no antidote and Enjolras has lost so much weight and he’s almost writhing in pain, after hours of being asleep but with no rest. Combeferre said that it’s because Enjolras is incapable of resting, that his body is weak, but all Courfeyrac can see are the lines of pain in Enjolras’s forehead, all he can hear are the moans and whimpers and garbled names--Enjolras blindly begging for Courfeyrac, even though he’s right there, he swears he’s there and that it’ll be okay, E, it’ll be okay if he just goes back to sleep.

But it never is. Enjolras will wake up to a new set of aches or pains, his normally sharp and witty and bright mind scattered from fevers or seizures. He won’t remember much of what happened, which is a good thing, Combeferre reminds Courfeyrac when he’s worried about it. They all know about how, even when he’s hurting like this, he’s trying to look out for the group, for his two best friends. It’s so Enjolras. Luckily, their website’s and vlog’s followers are less on-edge than they have been the past few weeks, thanks to Feuilly using his turn on the vlog to post ‘Finally, a Visit’, which had happened on one of the best days Enjolras has had. Enjolras is being sassy and witty in the few clips Feuilly shows, and the comments are flooded with well wishes, calls to action, and the few observant people who pick up on Enjolras’s bony shoulders and tired eyes. 

It’s better than the one he and Combeferre had made that first night in the hospital. He’s tried to rewatch it, but he knows he’ll never get through it because it’s too hard. He feels the exact same hopelessness and fear that he did when he was trying to explain what they knew, what had happened, and he remembers breaking down completely. Luckily, Cosette cut most of that raw footage from the final cut.

When Combeferre silently slips into the room, his heart twinges. Enjolras is sweating buckets, but he’s calm. Courfeyrac is gripping his hand with one of his own, the other gently massaging his friend’s scalp. It’s such a tender moment that Combeferre feels like he’s intruding, but there’s major news, news he only knows because one of his intern friends didn’t have the heart to keep it from him. 

“Hey,” Courfeyrac greets, giving Combeferre a small smile as he takes his place next to him. “You see Feuilly’s video?”

“Yeah. He did a good job,” he says, and he means it. Combeferre can’t help but smile when he remembers Feuilly’s narration of his day with Enjolras, and it _was_ good seeing Enjolras acting so Enjolras. “I especially liked the highlighting of Pokemon Go.” 

“That’s because you’re a nerd,” Courfeyrac says, finally removing his hand from Enjolras’s hair, content that he’s asleep. “Are you off now?”

“Yeah. I don’t work until Monday.” Combeferre’s forehead creases just a little at that, because if there was ever a weekend to be with Enjolras, it would be this one. He doesn’t know why he doesn’t just blurt out the news to Courfeyrac, but he’s worried that if he’s wrong then it’ll raise Courfeyrac’s hopes just high enough to shatter them when they fall.

“You should go change. You’ve been on for like a whole day. I can watch him for a little while more,” Courfeyrac says, but he allows Combeferre to rest his head on his shoulder. 

“It’s almost over,” Combeferre admits, and immediately he feels Courfeyrac stiffen. He nudges Combeferre off of him, so that he can look him in the eyes.

“What do you mean?” Shit. Maybe Combeferre shouldn’t have let that slip.

“I was talking to a friend…” Combeferre takes a break to clean his glasses. “They might have a treatment for the poison.” 

“What?” Courfeyrac can’t believe it. He can’t bring himself to hope right now, because he can’t handle the possibility that Combeferre’s wrong and Enjolras will have to go through more of this. He just wants it to end--he wants it to end because Enjolras has suffered so much already and because Courfeyrac doesn’t know how much more of this he can take.

“Some of the doctors have been looking at more of his blood samples, and they might have a formula that could neutralize whatever’s in his system,” Combeferre explains, breathless. 

“Why haven’t they given it to him? When did you hear about this?” Courfeyrac can’t help the few tears that start to leak from his eyes. This could all be over.

“They’re talking to his head doctor right now. I only know because one of my friend’s supervisors was working on it. But it’s not magic, Courfeyrac.” Combeferre knows, because he knows what this poison is acting like, that the antidote is going to be rough on Enjolras. 

“What do you mean? He’s going to get better.” Silently, Combeferre takes one of Courfeyrac’s hands in his own.

“It’s not going to be easy on Enjolras. This is a tricky, resilient poison, and in order to get rid of it, the antidote is probably going to cause more pain than there would be without it, at least for the first few hours or so. It’ll burn and cause fevers and maybe nausea and probably other things,” Combeferre explains, and instantly Courfeyrac’s face crumples. He knows that Courfeyrac can hardly bare to watch any more of Enjolras’s suffering.

“But then it’ll get better?” 

“If it works, yes.” There’s a moment, and Combeferre can watch Courfeyrac’s face change into a mask, or more accurately like he’s put on his war paint.

“How soon can we start it?”

“If I guess correctly, as soon as Enjolras gets through this wave of pain--his fever isn’t dangerously high and he hasn’t had any spasms or seizures in over twenty-four hours. I’ll talk to his doctor about it.” Combeferre is so visibly relieved that the idea of more pain hasn’t scared Courfeyrac off of it, because if they can just get through one more night of this it could all be over. It always seems darkest right before dawn, right?

That’s why, after a few heated arguments with his supervisor who’s worried that Enjolras isn’t strong enough for the antidote tonight, when Enjolras wakes up, there’s a new IV bag waiting, along with several doctors and both Combeferre and Courfeyrac.

“What’s going on?” he asks immediately, because whenever this has happened it means that he’s been epically fucked up. But it doesn’t hurt more than just the normal aches…

When the doctor announces that there’s a treatment they’re going to try, but there might be side effects, Enjolras tunes out her lecture. One hand, the one that’s already got an IV in it pumping nutrients and hydration and whatever else they decide he needs, goes to his face to hide the tears that are there. He’s exhausted and he’s hurting but this could all be over. It’s the best news that Enjolras has heard since he’s collapsed in the apartment.

“We’re going to start it right now. If your vitals go haywire, or something else happens, we will stop it. You’re still extremely weak from the latest fever. A nurse will be around every ten minutes and your friends will be here the entire time,” the doctor warns, but Enjolras doesn’t hear anything. They all file out of the room as Courfeyrac grips his hand and they insert a new IV line into his other hand, before setting up the drip bag. 

This is how it starts.

:: ::

“It burns, it burns it burns it burns.” Hours later, Enjolras tries to toss and turn as he pleads with Courfeyrac. “Take it out, please. Courfeyrac, please.”

Twenty minutes into the treatment, Enjolras’s fever had spiked and he’d thrown up, but it made him so exhausted he’d fallen asleep, mumbling about how his hand itched. An hour later, out of nowhere, he’d woken up screaming and had ripped the IV out of his hand. That, Courfeyrac thinks, is the worst thing he’s ever seen. 

Now, the IV is back in his arm, taped in multiple places, and his other wrist is cuffed to the bed, so he can’t pull it out again. Instead, Enjolras is begging for it to be gone, but unless they want to draw the treatment out longer, they can’t do that. His fever isn’t dangerous, and he’s only thrown up a few times. He’s just in pain, but they don’t want to sedate him and risk mixing too many chemicals in Enjolras’s body. So there’s nothing Courfeyrac can actually do to help his friend; he just has to sit there and listen as _Enjolras_ , Enjolras who didn’t complain at all when he spent two days throwing up, who once went four hours before calmly calling Combeferre to ask how to set a broken nose, begs and cries and pleads. 

“I know, I know.” Courfeyrac’s voice is soft, and he’s trying to calm Enjolras down, smoothing the sweat-soaked curls back and rubbing circles gently over the bandage marking where he’d ripped out the IV line. “I know it hurts but it’s almost over.”

“Help me, Courf. It hurts.” Enjolras’s eyes are glassy, and Courfeyrac has no idea if he actually knows who’s in the room, because he’s shaking and curling up into a ball. “Please, Courf, you gotta help me.”

“Just breathe through it.” The words are broken by Courfeyrac’s choked attempts at keeping his own emotions underneath the surface. Combeferre had stepped out of the room to talk to the doctor, and so Courfeyrac is all alone to deal with this. 

“Courf, I swear I’ll be better. I swear I’m better. Just get this thing out of me.” Enjolras sounds so broken, and the hand that isn’t restrained reaches out blindly for Courfeyrac, even though his hand was already there. Instantly, Courfeyrac grips it tightly.

“You’re okay, E. You’re okay, I promise,” he says, but Enjolras just looks at Courfeyrac. His huge, brown eyes are rimmed with red, then again with ink-like smudges, and they’re filling with tears.

“Courf. Please.” Enjolras’s voice cracks, and, fuck, Courfeyrac would set the world on fire if it meant he could make it stop. But he can’t, because otherwise this goes on longer and it’ll just make him weaker and then there’s more of a chance that he’s going to die. 

“I can’t.” Those are the hardest words that Courfeyrac has had to say, and that’s when he can’t keep his own tears from spilling out. Luckily, Enjolras doesn’t seem to notice until one hits his hand. Something creases in his face, but he doesn’t have time to dwell on it. Something has stabbed him in his stomach. 

“Fuck,” he mutters, before leaning over the side of the bed and retching. Instantly, Courfeyrac presses the call button, and no less than five doctors (not including Combeferre) rush into the room. “I’m fine,” he tries to argue, but then he’s hit with another round of vomiting. He feels the heat rush to the front of his eyes, and when it’s finally over there are hands helping him back to a lying down position even before it’s clear that he doesn’t have the strength to do it himself. There’s no break, because someone is swabbing his mouth out before a thermometer is thrust between his lips. Combeferre is standing off, near the corner, while doctors are speaking too quickly and pointing at machines. 

“107,” someone says, and Courfeyrac watches Enjolras’s eyes roll back into his head. “We need to get him cooled down.”

Quicker than should be possible, Enjolras is lifted out of the bed and onto a stretcher, whisked out of the room. 

“Where are they taking him?” Courfeyrac asks, panicking, when Combeferre has to stop him from following. “What’s going on, ‘Ferre?”

“His fever needs to be brought down immediately. They’re going to give him an ice bath. He’s going to be okay,” he explains, his hands on his best friend’s shoulders. “Come on, Courfeyrac, breathe.” To be honest, Courfeyrac hadn’t even registered that he’s not breathing normally until Combeferre points it out.

“Oh my god. Oh my god,” Courfeyrac gets out, as Combeferre pulls him into a hug. “I should have known. He was begging and crying and I should have known something was wrong.” 

“No, you couldn’t know,” Combeferre says, as they cling to each other. The rest of Les Amis, they’re waiting for an update, but Combeferre isn’t willing to face anything else in the world right now. He needs to breathe in Courfeyrac’s smell, feel grounded by the fact that they’re still here, they’re all still here, until letting go feels like something he can do without his world ripping in two. Courfeyrac just cries and cries, his hands fisting in the back of Combeferre’s shirt like he’s afraid he’ll fall if he doesn’t hold on as tightly as he can. Eventually, what feels like years later, their heartbeats find the other, and the world has stopped shaking enough for them to let go.

“I can go tell them what’s going on,” Courfeyrac offers. “Someone should be here when he gets back.”

“It’ll be a while. They’ll have to warm him back up a bit, and make sure everything is fine.” Combeferre’s voice is calm, and he follows Combeferre out to the waiting room. As soon as Courfeyrac’s puffy, red eyes come into view, Marius encompasses him in a hug that has them both rocking back and forth. There are no words necessary.

:: ::

Enjolras is resting, tossing and turning as much as the restraint will let him. Courfeyrac is curled up into a ball next to him, his hand absentmindedly tangled in Enjolras’s hair as he snores. Whenever Enjolras broaches consciousness, he smiles a little at his friend, and that alone is enough to keep Combeferre from removing Courfeyrac from the bed.

If there’s ever a night Combeferre wanted to end, it’s this one. If he closes his eyes, he can almost imagine that they’re seven years old again and they’re sharing secrets inside of a tent his dad helped them pitch in the back yard. He can smell the sugar coating his lips from the marshmallows they never actually toasted, he can see Courfeyrac’s face illuminated by just a flashlight, he can hear the crickets and Enjolras’s laughter. 

But that’s not reality. Reality is Enjolras waking up and having to jump to hold a bucket just off the side of the bed so Enjolras can violently heave the water he’d drank only an hour ago into it, instead of the floor. Reality is the wretched sounds (of Enjolras retching) waking up Courfeyrac, and Courfeyrac holding Enjolras’s shaking frame and pulling him gently back onto the bed when it’s over. Reality is Courfeyrac holding Enjolras in his arms and murmuring nonsense to keep Enjolras from crying again. 

Luckily, reality is the IV being taken out at four in the morning, fifteen minutes after Enjolras’s fever breaks. Reality is Enjolras falling asleep, exhausted, but with a smile that sparkles even in the darkness of the room. 

Combeferre looks out the window, an hour later when both of his friends are still sleeping soundly. The first smudges of purple and pink are lining the horizon, splashing color onto the blackness speckled with stars. It’s that in-between type of moment that marks both beginnings and endings. He can’t help but think that the redness will flood the sky as it disappears from Enjolras’s face, that the stars will become the freckles on his friend’s nose. 

The night is ending, now, as the purple gives way to oranges and yellows and reds. There is so much yet to be fixed, and yet Combeferre can’t help but smile at the light. If he looks back, he knows Enjolras will be okay. That’s real, as real as the way the pale sunlight seems to open up his ribcage, allowing his heart room to swell with happiness and his lungs room to expand with laughter. There’s room for that possibility, now.

It’s almost a new day.

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know what you think!!!! Here or at my blog! (thoseunheard on tumblr) Comments honestly make my day!


End file.
